


Recalibration Nation

by HeatedHeadwear (SplickedyHat)



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Cyborgs, Gen, Panic Attacks, Violence, ear trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 04:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12951693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/HeatedHeadwear
Summary: The new patch didn't work.  Have you tried turning him off and then on again?





	Recalibration Nation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpoonerizeSwiftness (SplickedyHat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/gifts).



> Easing towards caution with my ratings--there's really nothing too intense in here, but I'm Using My Discretion so.  
> Inspiration credit to Livelivefastfree's Cyborg Bodyguard AU: http://livelivefastfree.tumblr.com/post/157846301301/anonymous-said-chuck-slave-au-how-about  
> (I had intended to just play around in the bodyguard part of the sandbox but obviously it got away from me and I'm back on my Recovery Story Bullshit. Most of the pseudoscience jargon is borrowed from LLFF's other cyborg stuff, because they do it best, haha)  
> And then also to the song Agnes by Glass Animals, because the music video is of a guy in a giant centrifuge and it seemed weirdly perfect? So sad though. u-u

The kid is new.

Well, “kid” isn’t really fair.  Looking closer, he’s got to be at least Mike’s age, and Mike’s almost eighteen.  But there’s something about the way the guy hunches and chews on his split lip that makes him look young.

And then the Duke mutters something and he straightens all the way up, eyes flashing a luminescent blue-green, and he doesn’t look so young anymore.  He looks-- _neat_ , is the first word that comes to mind, looking at the scarlet-and-white jacket, the immaculately-groomed blond hair, the bangs cut short enough to show those freaky-awesome eyes.

The second word that comes to mind is--

“Cyborg,” mutters Dutch, soft and uneasy.  “Didn’t know they had those down h--”

“Cyborg?!  Where?” Texas shouts, springing forward to sling an arm around Dutch’s shoulders.  “What kinda--”

“Easy, Tex,” says Mike.  He’d laugh if he weren’t so ticked about having to be here, and so suddenly nervous about the blonde boy standing tall at the Duke’s shoulder.  And he is very tall, when he’s not slouching.  Certainly taller than Mike.

“I thought we were settled, Duke,” says Mike.  “Why’d you call us out here?”

“ _Well._ Burners.  I know you got off happy-go-scot-free last time we chatted--”

“What,” says Julie.

“--but I didn’t want you to write me off as a contender!  I want you to remember what’s _mine_.   _Habeas machina.  Memento automobilia.”_

 _“What,”_ says Julie.

“ _So_ , meet the latest addition to the team!  My new, aha, bodyguard.  Here to guard my body.  He’s actually been with us for a few weeks now...settling in, getting used to food that isn’t _throat cubes_ \--you know that old song and dance, right, Mike?”

Mike doesn’t answer.

“Mm-hm.  Okay.  I see how it is.”  The Duke spins balletically on one heel and lands facing the cyborg, grinning wide and horrible against one of his ubiquitous microphones.  “Hey, you!  Command: punch our friend Mister Chilton here!”

 _“Affirmative,”_ says the cyborg, and then he’s a foot from Mike and swinging.   _Duck, dodge, spin away--_ too slow, and a reinforced fist collides _CRACK_ with his cheekbone.

And then Mike’s on the floor, pain just starting to seep through the numbness under his right eye.  The ringing in his ears starts to fade, only to be replaced by the Duke’s unrepentant guffawing--which Mike’s already had quite enough of, thank you very much.  He grabs Texas’s hand and pulls himself up, eyes narrowing as the cyborg sways into view.  He wants to dance?  Mike’s ready to--

...Oh.

The guy is just standing there, arms limp, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.  His thin chest is heaving, way harder than he should be after just one punch.  He bites his lip--glances slowly up at Mike, then sharply back down again, arms twitching convulsively.

Texas snorts.  “What the hell!  He’s, like, a total wimp!”

“Texas, c’mon,” mutters Mike, and takes a tentative step towards the cyborg.  “Hey, dude.  Uh...you...okay?”

“Just a little something to think about next time you wanna _take my stuff_ , Chilton!” calls the Duke.  “I have a cyborg now!  Show’s over, hope y’all liked it!”

“We didn’t!” Dutch yells back, and retreats uneasily as gray-suited henchpeople slide out of the shadows to either side.  “Dang...Mike, c’mon, we gotta go.”

“That was _all_?” says Texas, disbelieving.  “It took us, like, an _hour_ to get here and--”

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from,” the Duke purrs into a mic.  “If you don’t clear out!”

Texas whips around, hands going to his gunchucks, and every other Burner dives after him in a shared moment of self-preservation, hauling him bodily towards the mansion’s front doors.

\--

“Hey, Hudson,” says Jacob.  “Heard you were in town.”

Mike leans around Jacob to give Hudson a quick once-over.  As old as Jacob (or older); gray hair that probably used to be neat; still in white and blue Kane Co. clothes.  The colors make Mike’s stomach twist involuntarily, and he takes a quick, deep breath.

“Jacob!”  The guy looks relieved for just a second before he gets a good look at Jacob’s face.  Then he...doesn’t look so relieved.

“Whaddaya know about the cyborg kid the Duke’s got workin’ for him, Hudson?” says Jacob, without preamble.  The Burners share a look behind him while Hudson goes white.

“Uh,” says Texas, “why’s he askin’ about _that_ guy?  I thought we were here for _important_ st-- _”_

Dutch elbows him in the ribs, which quickly escalates into a scuffle before Julie gives them one of her Looks.  There’s a moment of belligerent whispering, and then Dutch lets go of Texas’s hat and Texas releases his half nelson.  Both of them turn their eyes back to Hudson and Jacob.

Jacob has his arms folded, glowering down at Hudson with one toe tapping.  It’s the only sound in the room.  Hudson stares fixedly down at his locked fingers, mouth tight under his salt-and-pepper mustache, shoulders hunched.  They stay like that for a minute, unspeaking, encapsulated in a private bubble of awkward silence--until Mike can’t tolerate it anymore.  The tension breaks as he steps forward, putting a hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

“...I wanna know too.  He didn’t seem too happy to be there.  If he’s a prisoner or something, we’re gonna get him out, okay?  Our tipster said you guys came down here together.”

“We...did,” mumbles Hudson, eyes fixed on his feet.  “We were working together on a project for Kane--”

Jacob snorts, derisive and unsurprised, and Hudson flinches.  “‘Course you were.  And I guess that Duke yahoo told you he’d get you out of Deluxe, but only if he got to keep the cyborg?”

“No!  I--yes.  But I didn’t know--I didn’t think I was agreeing to _that!_  I said I’d give them the weapon we’d been building, and...they thought the boy _was_ the weapon--”

“Wait, back up,” says Dutch, waving both hands.  “He’s _not_?”

Hudson’s hands start to wring furtively under his coat.  “I…”

“How does the Duke know how to control him?” asks Mike.  The slightest hint of eyebrow is showing under his bangs, a sign of Maximum Disapproval Mode.  “Did you tell him?”

“No!”

“Don’t make you a saint,” says Jacob stiffly.  “Not surprised Duke has a tech guy workin’ for him who could suss out the neuroprogramming stuff.  He’s got one of everything.”

“I didn’t know--”

“You didn’t have to know!” says Dutch, who’s been looking progressively more and more freaked out.  “He’s a guy!  Like, an actual human being!”

“What’s his name?” asks Mike suddenly.  Hudson turns to him with a look of blank, guilt-streaked fear on his face.

“...I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, you are,” mutters Jacob, but Mike puts a hand on his shoulder and he settles into grumpy silence.

“What’s his name?  The cyborg guy?”

“Chuck,” says Hudson.

\--

_The boy is small.  Timid.  Parentless.  But he’d scored impossibly high on every test they threw at him, his results only dropping from a solid 100% when they gave him the adult aptitudes.  A proctor who’d watched the footage from his evaluation suggested that he might have gotten even 15% higher on those if he hadn’t…_

_Well._

Anxiety issues, _reads the brutally brief entry in the recommendation form.  The only text under_ Risks or Liabilities.   _And so the boy is assigned to the new Enhancement Program, and again he_ excels.   _That big, overworried brain connects relatively easily to the neural implants, and after each surgery his physical scores improve as well.  They are making his body faster, stronger,_ better.   _He grows quickly, but the new self-adjusting components extend with him.  It’s a monumental success._

_And then he breaks._

_The readings have been bad for weeks--months, even, but no one calls attention to it until absolutely necessary.  Until it’s too late.  It’s after a long day of endurance tests--G-force resistance and weight lifting, mostly.  Proctors recorded his apparent emotional state as “subdued” and left it at that, but someone keeps an eye on his pod surveillance just in case._

_Almost the instant his door closes, he collapses against a wall and starts hyperventilating.  Quick, deep gasps, faster and faster, and then he opens his mouth to let noise pour out--one prolonged, horrified cry after another, until he’s just sobbing on the ground, tears dripping down his face._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Mister Kane scraps the project not long after.  The news of the...incident wasn’t meant to get around, but other tech groups desperately want that top slot and approval for research.  It’s not pretty, but few things really are up here._

\--

“Okay,” says the Duke, “so what’s the problem.  I’m listening, Stretch!”

“I--”

“I know the whole _Override_ thing--oh, calm down--I know that whole thing is not your cup of, uh, _tea_ , but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be able to just, mm, switch it off whenever you want.”

“It’s just this--”

“So what is it?  Do you just overheat?  Run outta gas?”

“Uh-- _hhhh--”_

“Got a tire pressure problem?  Someone cut your _brake line_?”

Chuck manages an exasperated half-snarl, popping the heel of his hand against one temple.  “Rrrrr _no_ I’m not c--car!!  It’s a--a protocol!  Don’t--damage the unit!  So when my body goes into fight-or-flight mode?  You know--”

“The mode where you fight or flight, yes,” the Duke interrupts, his voice hopping through the words in an impatient rhythm.  “Get to the point.”

“Okay, okay!  Just don’t-- _turn me off_ , okay?”

“I would not _dream_ of it, now finish the thing!”

“You do it all the time,” Chuck mutters, and then winces as the Duke twists and slithers over the edge of his throne until he’s halfway off of it, practically nose-to-nose with Chuck.  He raises a mic to his mouth.

_“Executive Ov--”_

“Okay, wait!!  It’s like, okay, I go into fight or flight mode and my unit registers the, the, I mean, at a certain level of adrenaline and stuff,  it’s programmed to cancel overrides in case my life’s in danger!  That’s all!”

The Duke withdraws, petulant suspicion still etched on his face.  “Uh-huh.   _One_ little thing, though-- _you do it all the time._ ”

“Yeah!! Well!!”

“What I’m saying is, Stretch, how often is your life in danger, I mean _come on!_ Your quote _unit_ unquote is cuh- _learly_ defective.”

“Wh--no, it’s not!  It’s--”  Chuck cuts himself off with a sharp, spasmodic gulp, gripping his elbows with either hand.  After a few moments making small, struggling noises in his throat, he manages, furiously, “It’s--my stupid--brain _\--_ that’s defective!It’s just scared of everything all the time, okay?  I can’t help it!  The only other option is fighting, but when I’m just standing around and my brain thinks I’ve gotta run or I’ll die--”

“Okay, yeah, okay.   _Executive Override,_ and I’ll keep doing it as long as I have to, or--”  Chuck’s face flickers and grimaces, the glow in his eyes dimming again, and the Duke snaps, “ _Executive Override!_ \--Or until I get _bored._  And I am a-reachin’ that point.   _Yow._ ”

\--

After the race, shit really hits the fan.  Apparently, the Duke had been itching to hold a citywide racing event for months, just waiting for an excuse--which eventually came in the form of a giant public fight with the Mama’s Boys over whose TV broadcasts were more popular.  So the Duke was slated to compete in the next Robo Roundup and at least twelve gangs entered cars in the lineup for the Duke’s race.

Odds were calculated.  Bets were placed.  In the aftermath (a mess of burning cars and sabotage accusations) things get...intense.  Mostly, people are just really pissed at the Duke.  The gangs corner him outside his mansion, and even with the entirety of his posse behind him, the Duke is hopelessly outnumbered.  The Burners perch on a trash heap near the edge of the riot-in-the-making, watching things escalate

“I wanna get in there,” mutters Texas.  “Texas coulda lost Stronghorn!  The Duke needs a good _punchin’._ ”

“Yeah, but you didn’t lose her, did you?” says Dutch.  “And it woulda been your own dang fault anyway, so--”

“Would _not_ , everyone was cheatin’!”

“That is true,” murmurs Julie.

“Sshhhhh,” says Mike, “something’s happening.”

\--

“I realize,” says the Duke of Detroit, “that a-y’all have your long johns in a twist over this whole--”

“You riggin’ the racetrack to explode alla our vee-hickles?” sneers Junior of the Mama’s boys, letting the pink, glowing coils of his plasma whip fall to the ground.  “Yeah, you ain’t made no friends with that, Dukey!”

“My cars are finely-tuned instruments,” says Rayon, in a voice that creaks with ice.  “When I enter my drivers in a race, I expect _courtesy_.”

“And that’s very nice, et cetera,” says the Duke, one hand snapping open and shut-- _blah blah blah_.  “But con _sider_ \--I have a cyborg.   _Cyborg Chuuuuck!!”_

There’s an awkward pause, during which the other gang leaders look around for the cyborg in question.

“This is going nowhere,” snaps Rayon.  “I say we--”

“Uno mo _mento,_ Bluebird!” screams the Duke, waving a skinny finger in Rayon’s face--and jerking it back before it can get broken.  “Minions!  Where is my _cyborg_?”

“Coming, my Duke,” murmurs Number Two, snapping her gum.  Behind her in the ranks of gray suits, someone is scuffling, fighting, being dragged.

“I don’t--stop _pushing--_ I don’t want to-- _do_ this!”

Chuck finally stumbles into the open with a squawk, hair rumpled, his face a mask of terror and rage.  When he sees the Duke’s grin, though, the rage drains away, leaving him pale and sweaty and scared.

“Now,” says the Duke, turning back to the gangs before him, “I’m gonna walk outta here!  And _none_ of you useless hoodligans is gonna lay a finger on me.  Ain’t that right, kid.”

\--

“I dunno,” mumbles Chuck.  He’s still trying to straighten himself up, look maybe a tiny bit defiant.  “You’ve got--all your other guys, you don’t need--”

“Yeah, whatever, now _get out there!”_ The Duke could have just used an override, but instead he grabs Chuck by the back of his collar and wrenches him forward.  Chuck can _feel_ his body trying to shrink to nothingness in the face of hundreds of cold glares.

“...Hi?” he tries.

“Stand down, kid,” says Foxy, cool and collected as usual.  “We don’t wanna have to hurt you.”

“And he doesn’t wanna have to hurt _you_ , probably,” drawls the Duke, with the edge of a petty, callous snarl in his voice.  He plucks a microphone from one of his hip holsters, spinning it between his fingers.  “Too bad for all of you!   _Command: Attack!”_

He sings the command in a high, ringing falsetto, but horribly it still manages to register in Chuck’s Imperative Protocol.  He feels his consciousness shift, and he shouldn’t bother fighting it anymore but--it’s _unbearable_ , to feel your own thoughts and feelings slide neatly to one side in favor of subroutines beyond your control.  Every time he claws and struggles, pleading with his own body for control as things shift under his skin and heat whirrs into life.

And every time, he unfolds all the same.

 _“Affirmative,”_ says the cyborg.  And then Foxy rolls her shoulders and tries to step around him towards the Duke, and he splits his knuckles against her face.

\--

The Burners watch as the Duke practically strolls through a mob of gang members.  Chuck’s eyes are visible even from here, flashes of blue-green as he threshes his way through the crowd.  One of the Skylarks dives in and then goes flying backwards with a crack that echoes off of the trash heaps.

“Hey, that guy was _huge_ ,” says Texas, glancing uneasily at the prone Skylark.  “How’d he do that?”

“It’s a cyborg thing,” mutters Dutch.  “Deluxe doesn’t do heavy implants like this anymore but I’ve read some of the reports--they managed to get close to super-strength with a few of ‘em.”

“Texas could take ‘im,” says Texas belligerently, and then leaps a good three feet in the air with a shout as another gang member goes flying past.

“Yeah, sure,” says Mike absently.  His eyes are fixed intensely on the fight, darting back and forth, trying to follow Chuck’s movements.  Julie glances at him, frowning.

“Actually, Mike, I’m surprised you haven’t jumped in yet.”

“I don’t--”  Mike pauses, makes a false start forward, and then settles back, grimacing.  “You heard him before, he doesn’t wanna be doing this.  I don’t wanna hurt him.”

“I’m not sure you could,” says Julie, and then, a hard, nervous edge in her voice, “...He’s getting closer, by the way.  Mike.  We should go.”

“We could--take him with us.”

“And bring the Duke down on our heads _again_?  We need to be smart about this!  The only way to beat him is with a good threat or a bribe or--”

“Jules, you know I’m never smart about stuff,” mutters Mike, one hand going to his jacket pocket as Chuck slams an Electroblade into the ground.

“The hell you’re not, Mike Chilton!”

“Jules!”

“Actually,” says Texas suddenly, “I think I’m with Trixie on this one, we should bolt.”

“Oh thank god,” says Dutch, already backing away.  “Yes, definitely, yes--Mike, come on, let’s get outta here before things get real messy.”

“But--”

Julie takes Mike’s arm, staring hard up into his eyes.  “We _can’t help_ right now, Cowboy.  Even Texas gets it.”

“ _But--_ ”

Her hand is shaking, white and thin-boned.  Easily-broken, thinks Mike, glancing at the groaning, bloody bodies lying nearby.  “I promise, Mike, we _will_ figure this out.”

“Okay,” says Mike, hating himself.  “Okay.  Let’s bolt.”

\--

“It eliminates...fear,” says the Duke’s Tech Guy, somewhere between impressed and nauseated.  “Some kind of...emotional inhibitor?  Some kind of...hormone thing?  I dunno, I’ll have to run more tests--”

“Wellwellwellwellwell _that_ is _very_ interesting,” the Duke cuts in, plucking the silvery bracelet from Tech Guy’s fingers.  “And not just because _Some Kind of Hormone Thing_ was the title of my first album.  I can think of a few uses for _that!_ ”

“My Duke, I don’t think any of your people need--”

“Oh, not _you._ ”  The Duke waves a hand dismissively.  He spins the ring around one finger for a moment, and then tosses it high to snatch it out of the air.  “Mm, alright.  Cyborg Chuck!!  Appear!”

Cyborg Chuck appears, slumping awkwardly out of the shadows.  His pupils flash like a mutant rat’s when the light hits them just right--turquoise instead of purple, but still.  Creepy.

“Give me your arm,” says the Duke without preamble.  “I want to try a _thing_.”

“What...what kind of thing?”

“Executive Override give me your _arm_ Cyborg Chuck!”

“Affirmative,” says Chuck, with only the tiniest wobble in his deadpan, and holds out one arm.  Just as the bracelet clamps around his wrist, his face flickers, switches back to that pathetic, very _human_ fear the Duke has come to recognize.  But it’s too late, and now...now it won’t be a problem anymore.

Good thinking, Duke.

He watches in satisfaction as Chuck steps back, breathing hard--and then, gradually, his shoulders stop heaving.  He stands up straight.

“That’s it, Stretch,” says the Duke, grinning.  “Feeling better with your, uh, _stupid brain_ out of the way, hmmm?  Let’s talk _business_.  Now, I’m thinking--”

“I’m...taller than you,” says Chuck.

The Duke frowns.  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.  Now--”

“Y’know, all this time you had me following orders,” says Chuck, “I thought you’d probably just had your neuro guy do some surgery when I was asleep or something.”

“I thought about it,” the Duke concedes grumpily.  “But that is a-besides the point.  You--”

“But now that I’m really thinking about it…”  Chuck flexes his fingers, frowning down at them.  “I’m betting you had them connect the microphone to my cochlear implants, right?  Like they did up in Deluxe.  I guess I’m impressed.”  His eyes swivel slowly, consideringly around to look the Duke in the face.  “Or I would be, if I wasn’t so _pissed._ Haha.”

“Now, Stretch,” says the Duke, reaching for one of his mic holsters, “let’s not--”

“ _Chuck._ ”

“Hwhat.”

“My name is Chuck.  Not _Stretch._ Not _Cyborg Chuck_.”

“But that is what you _are_ , no?” drawls the Duke, and raises the mic to speak into it.  “Here, let’s give you a little refresher…  Executive Over--”  
_“No,”_ says Chuck.  The Duke freezes, glaring at him over his shades.

“Excuse--”

“I’m _done_ ,” says Chuck, and reaches out for the Duke’s microphone.  His fingers close around it with an audible _crunch_ , pulling it inexorably out of the Duke’s grasp.  The Duke makes a small, broken noise of outrage.

“How-- _dare_ you--!”

Chuck actually laughs, loud and confident and horrible, and crushes the head of the microphone one-handed.  When he lets the fragments fall to the ground, blood is beading on his palm.  He doesn’t seem to notice, just cricks his neck left, then right, then punches the Duke in the gut with startling, inhuman speed.  The Duke collapses, gagging, glasses slipping off his nose as he heaves for air.  Chuck considers him for a moment before lifting one foot and driving his heel down onto the glasses.  Once--twice--three times, and both lenses are shattered.

“Okay,” he says, laughing a little.  “I think we’re done here, huh?”

“Not even started,” drawls a voice behind him.  “And you’re gonna regret punchin’ my Duke.”

\--

It’s a manhunt, a race across the city, a pack of limousines chasing one skinny blonde kid all the way to Ambassador Bridge.  And that’s where the Burners find him, fighting his way through rank after rank of the Duke’s minions on foot, surrounded by fallen, groaning bodies.

His eyes are red.

He doesn’t fight like a machine anymore, all stiff and smooth.  He’s just... _wild._ Mike’s seen a lot of different fighting styles--straightforward and solid, evasive and deceptive, even downright dirty.  The only thing this reminds him of is the Ultra-Elites, the ones with the implants.  The ones Julie said “removed fear’.

Chuck’s forehead is bleeding, red streaks spilling at an angle across his face, catching in the pale scars that run from his eyes to his jaw.  Green lights cascade under his skin, channeling power for those earth-shaking punches.  He fights like a wild animal, he twists and claws and snarls, veins standing out on long, wiry arms.  But unlike an animal--and Mike’s fought enough mutant rats to know the difference--he isn’t afraid.  He isn’t looking for a gap to hightail it and hide somewhere.  Never on the defensive, always looking for the next enemy.

Mike isn’t afraid either--at least, not _of_ Chuck--but he still hesitates for a moment.  The Ultra-Elites he fought last week were strong, and fearless, and didn’t feel pain, but none of them were cyborgs.  And none of them were--

\--none of them were Chuck.

“I’m going in,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” says Julie sharply.  “You didn’t wanna fight him before, but now that he’s turned into some kind of-- _death machine_ you’re down for it?!”

“He’s gonna get himself killed!” says Mike, glancing over at Dutch.  “Someone’s gotta do something.  I need you guys to have my back.”

“When do we not,” Texas laughs, clapping Mike on the back.  “We’ll getcha in there, Tiny!  You sure you don’t want Texas to handle the metal man?”

“Hey,” says Mike, grinning crookedly, “you’re the one who wanted to run last time, dude.”

“Did _not_.”

“Did so,” says Julie, and then, before Texas can argue, “go on.  We’ll take care of the rest of ‘em.”

Mike runs, and hears the sound of laser weapons charging behind him.  Dodges through the obstacle course of fists and guns and fallen bodies, laughing at near misses.  There’s a guy between him and Chuck, brandishing brass knuckles and bellowing.  Mike speeds up, finds his moment, and takes a running leap.  Chuck looks genuinely surprised to see him vaulting over the guy’s head, and even more surprised in the split-second before Mike lands and head-butts him in the chest.

Chuck stumbles back, clumsy and confused for a moment, and Mike takes his chance to close the gap again, move past the reach of those long, deadly arms and grab Chuck by the collar.

“Come on, dude,” he mutters, inches from Chuck’s blood-streaked face, too close to even focus on his eyes.  “Come _on_ , I know you’re not afraid but that doesn’t mean you don’t have any feelings, it doesn’t-- _ow!!”_

“I’m _better_ now!!” Chuck snarls.  “The old Chuck was _stupid_ and _weak_ and _pathetic!_ ”

“Yeah, well, he was a heck of a lot better than new Chuck!” Mike snaps back, before another blow lands on his ribs.  “ _Oof--_ pulling your punches, bud?”

“You’re Mike Chilton!”  Chuck tries to pull away, but Mike hangs on gamely, hands fisted in the shoulders of his red-and-white jacket.  “You’re--let _go_ \--I’ve seen videos, I heard your name up in Deluxe, all you do is kick ass!  You should _get it_ \--”

“I do all that stuff to keep people safe!” Mike shouts, shaking him.  “The only thing I ‘get’ right now is that you’re _not_ safe!  You gotta snap out of it, dude!  You’re gonna get _hurt!_ ”

“I--I don’t--”  Chuck’s still struggling, but less now, more erratically.  His head keeps twitching back and forth, eyelids fluttering.  “I thought you would--doesn’t make _sense_ \--”

He pulls away finally, a quick, panicked wrench, and drops to one knee, fumbling with his sleeve.  He starts to shake, rocking back and forth.  One of his hands hovers over the opposite wrist, fingers twitching.  “Shit-- _shit_ \--no, no--”

“Take it out,” Mike prompts.  “Just take it out, man, we’ll figure it out.  We’ll protect you, I promise.”

“I was protecting-- _myself_ \--” Chuck grits out.  “I’m fine--on my _own_ \--”  Reach, retreat.  Reach, retreat.

“You’re still fighting it,” says Mike, kneeling next to him.  “So I’m guessin’ you don’t really believe that, deep down.”

“Whatever, whatever, _whatever_ \--”

“No, dude, not _whatever_ , you gotta listen to yourself!  Part of you knows what’s wrong and what’s right and you gotta _listen_!  Because if you don’t--if you don’t, you--  If I hadn’t, I’d still be working for Kane.  And I wouldn’t have any friends.”

Chuck gasps roughly, almost sobs, and then his hand shoots down, closes on the wrist with the implant, white-knuckled.  When he draws back, there’s a little red tablet between his fingers.

“That’s it!” crows Mike, overjoyed.  “You got it, bud!  Alright!  Now let’s get you out of here!”

“I think that’ll be easier said than done.”  It’s Julie’s voice--Mike looks up, grinning, to see the Burners jogging towards him, and almost waves.  And then he sees their eyes, focused on something beyond him, and Julie’s pale, hard face.  He knows what they have to be looking at it, doesn’t have to turn and see.

But he does, and of course--there’s the limousine.  And the man himself, sprawled rakishly over the hood.

“Well _hello_ , Mister Chilton.”

“Duke.”  Mike stands up slowly, glancing back down at Chuck.  “...I wanna make a deal.”

“No need, no need.  If this is about Chuck there, I mean--you’re welcome to him!  I mean, would you just look at the _mess_ he’s made!  The Duke of Detroit doesn’t need _broken machines.”_  The Duke laughs, and Chuck flinches, even though he shouldn’t.

“He’s a _person_ , you massive tool!” shouts Dutch.

“He is a _cyborg_.”

Julie looks like she’s about ready to kill a man.  “Cyborgs _are_ people!”

“What?  Are they?”

“Not helping, Tex,” mutters Mike.

“I just wanna know--”

“Have fun with your new pet, Burners!” says the Duke, swinging open the front door of his limousine.  “Just so ya know, he’s a fear biter!”

“Yeah, you better run!” Texas bellows over Mike’s shoulder.  “And don’t _come_ back, y’hear?!”

The Duke’s people clean up fast, eyeing Chuck with expressions ranging from anger to outright terror as they work.  There’s plenty of room in the fleet of limousines for the injured and unconscious.

Even when they’re gone, though, Chuck doesn’t move.  Julie gives Mike a look.  Mike tries to smile back at her.  Dutch edges nervously towards Chuck, trying to get a look at his face.

“So,” says Texas loudly, “he’s supposed to be, like, our guy now?  Can he fight or not fight or what?”

“Right now he needs to _rest_ ,” says Julie pointedly.  And then, to Chuck, “Can you st--”

“I can help,” Chuck cuts in, in a kind of hopeless monotone.  “I can, uh...I’m pretty good at coding and stuff…”

“Whatever,” says Texas, and Chuck wilts.

“I really...okay…”

“We could use a hacker,” says Mike, with a look at Texas that says _Be cool, man._ Texas grunts, still eyeing Chuck’s left arm, where the machinery of one slingshot is still sparking and trying to reassemble.

“No, it’s okay--”  Chuck is red-faced, apparently horrified by his own temerity.  “I shouldn’t have said anything, it was stupid, I know--”

“It wasn’t stupid,” says Mike firmly.  “I mean it, we could really use someone with coding skills.  Dutch knows his way around a car and Texas--”

“Knows his way around _punching a face,”_ Texas finishes for him.  

Mike rolls his eyes, not without fondness, and continues, “But you don’t know how many times I’ve wished we could--I dunno, hack into Kane’s pod controls and just move it around however--”

“Oh, that’s not a thing,” says Chuck immediately, blank and quick.  “You can’t ‘hack into a pod’s controls’, it’s just--”  He pauses, looking thoughtfully down at his hands.  “...Unless…”

“See?”  Mike claps him on the back.  “That’s what I’m talking about!  You work on that, buddy, and we’ll get you set up.  I’ll tell Jacob to print you a badge while we’re drivin’ home, sound good?”

“A...a badge?”  Chuck swallows, eyes darting nervously to the Burner logo on Mike’s shoulder.  “So I’d be...I’d be part of the group?”

“That’s what it means,” says Julie, half-smiling.  And Chuck...kind of smiles back, still white-faced and bloody.  That’s good enough for Mike.

“Alright,” he says, holding out a hand.  “Let’s get you home.”

Chuck looks at the hand, then up at Mike’s face, then reaches out and lets Mike pull him to his feet.

\--

Chuck has never been in a car.  He and Hudson made the descent to Motorcity on foot, and the Duke seemed loathe to let Chuck anywhere near his _precious ladies._  Mutt is beautiful, thirteen feet of shining green metal, and when her engine woofs to life, the exhaust pipes flare an eye-smarting fuschia.

“Buckle up,” says Chilton--Mike?--and there’s something about the perfect, roguish grin he flashes that makes Chuck’s stomach tighten.

“Okay,” says Chuck slowly.  “Uh, but…”

“Yeah?”  Mike’s already holding the stickshift, but he looks expectantly over at Chuck and waits, and Chuck’s whole torso burns with embarrassment.

“N...nothing,” he says, and buckles up.  Mike frowns, shrugs, and punches the gas.

It happens over the course of about five seconds.  At sixty miles per hour, Chuck’s heart slams into his throat.  At one hundred, the world crushed back against the horizon behind them, his stomach turns into a ball of red-hot fear.  At two hundred, he’s-- _in a centrifuge, melting against a wall, heat and force lying on him like an iron blanket, and he can’t breathe and he can hear the project leader’s voice in his ear--_

“Chuck?”

_”Unit’s holding up fine.  Increase speed.”_

“Chuck, are you okay, dude?”

“Nngh!!” says Chuck.   _Don’t scream, oh god don’t scream or cry that would be so humiliating, you can’t--_

“Hey, say something!  Talk to me, man!  Do you need me to slow down?”

“Hnagh!!”  He can’t breathe--his heart is beating wrong--he’s going to die, he’s going to--

“Okay, I’m gonna stop!”

There’s a godawful screeching noise and the car pitches as Mike drags to a halt on the side of a road, and in the still, loose air Chuck gasps, breathes deep and too fast.   _Don’t cry, don’t cry, FUCK.  Shutdown.  Shutdown.  Don’t_ feel--god, he wants the implant back.  He wants these feelings to be gone.

“Are you okay?  Oh geez, you’re not okay.  We were only going two-fifty--”

“I--I’m--fine!” Chuck manages, between gasps.  “‘M--okay--not your fault--”

“It kinda is my fault if you’re scared of going fast,” says Mike reasonably.  “I’m driving the car.”

“Should’ve!  Said something!” Chuck squeaks, just on the verge of sobbing, and oh god this is mortifying, he wants to throw himself out of the car door or--make Mike leave or look away or something.   _Hold it together!_ He thinks about screaming on the floor of his pod, his own distant voice, the long, tearing wails.

“Yeah, I...I guess,” says Mike, in a _can’t-really-argue-but-still-want-to_ kind of voice.  “Here, okay, I’ll just...go slow, and--”

But the instant the car starts moving again, a jagged spike of fear shoots through Chuck’s chest and he yells again involuntarily, flailing both arms out ahead of him like he can hold the car back.  Mike slams on the brake again, looking infinitely more freaked out, and Chuck is definitely the worst person alive.  They can’t get home because of him.  This was a mistake.  This was such a mistake.  He wants to say _leave me here_.  He’s terrified of being left here.  He doesn’t know what to do.

The front seat lights up.  Chuck jumps, eyes readjusting to the sudden green glow, and sees a comm screen.  There’s an old guy on the other end, holding a pair of clippers and some kind of...organic growth in either hand.

 _“This better be important,”_ he grumbles.   _“I haven’t pruned these in two months and I got Bingo in half an hour so I don’t have time for--”_

“We’ve got Chuck,” says Mike.  “You know, the…”  He glances over at Chuck, looking weirdly guilty.  “The, uh...cyborg kid?”

 _“You what?  You_ got _him?  What’s that even mean?  Am I gonna have to deal with the Duke’s guys crashin’ my restaurant?”_

“No, it’s fine!” says Mike hastily.  “Uh, it’s just--geez, okay, I didn’t think this through, hang on.”  He looks over at Chuck, worried, uplit in green.  “...What do you need me to do?  Can I, like...help...you?”

Chuck shakes his head mutely, pulls his knees up to his chest.

 _“Seriously, what’s goin’ on?”_ calls the old man from the comm screen, sounding less belligerent and more concerned now.

“He’s, like...having some kind of attack, I guess?” says Mike awkwardly.  This is horrible.  It’s the worst.   _Stop caring stop worrying stop thinking about me._

_“What, like a panic attack?”_

_“Anxiety--issues,”_ Chuck manages hoarsely.  His lungs are starting to cooperate again, but his voice still sounds stupidly thick and weepy.

 _“Aw, heck,”_ mutters the guy, wiping dirty hands on his already-dirty green vest.   _“Okay, lemme talk to ‘im.”_

Jacob talks to Chuck for about half an hour.  About robots, and video games Mike has never heard of, and Jacob’s plants, which Chuck seems genuinely curious about.  Sometimes Chuck sniffs or sobs and Jacob will say, _“Deep breaths, kid.”_

Mike starts up a few calls of his own after a while, conversing quietly with the other Burners while Chuck and Jacob talk programming.  He doesn’t seem impatient, exactly, but one of his knees jogs persistently under the dashboard, and he doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands.  Rested on thighs.  Holding the wheel.  Folded, holding his chin.

After a while, Jacob asks a question, and Chuck nods, turning the comm screen towards Mike.

 _“Alright,”_ says Jacob, _“roll ‘er on home, Mike.  And go slow.”_

\--

A week later, Chuck is panicking less but he’s still scared basically all the time.

Everything is scary.  Motorcity is scary.  The other Burners are scary--especially Texas, but also Julie, who is clean and sharp and Deluxian.  Even Mike is scary, sometimes.  They’re all always running everywhere, eating new food, trying new things.  Driving fast.  Chuck can’t stomach the idea of asking any of them to slow down just for his benefit--not even Mike, who has offered so many times.  “I’ll go, like--forty-five, or whatever, and whenever you’re used to that we’ll do sixty or something!  It’ll be fine!”

It would not be fine, Chuck doesn’t want to say.  Mike’s used to driving three hundred miles per hour, and not only that, he _loves_ it.  Mike would probably die of boredom crawling along at sixty mph.  And of course the other Burners would be mad and probably hate Chuck for it, and anyway, what if they got into a fight with some Kanebots or something?  What _then?_

So instead Chuck spends most of his time with his screens, setting up increasingly complex firewalls around his unit’s drives.  Making himself entirely his own.  He completely shuts down the system linked to his cochlear implants, which is as good as it’s getting for now.  In Deluxe, they could have removed it overnight, but as Jacob says, anyone willing to stick a knife in your ear down here probably isn’t a surgeon.

There are days, though, when there’s nothing to do.  When Julie is in Deluxe and Dutch is out painting, and Kane isn’t actively trying to destroy Motorcity.  These days don’t come along often, and typically when they do, Mike tries to _make_ something to do.  Hey guys, let’s go for a drive!  Let’s play a game!  Let’s visit the undercity, let’s go get a pizza, let’s help someone paint their kitchen!  And the Burners go along with it, because they’re all best friends and they’d do anything for Mike.

Chuck gets that.

Today, Dutch and Julie are out, and Kane is...busy doing whatever he does on his days off, apparently.  And shockingly, uncharacteristically, Mike is in the mood to sit and watch old movies.  He lets Chuck pick the first one.  Chuck finds the one he thinks Mike will like most--something actiony and loud with an exploding car on the cover and a dangerous-sounding title.

So Chuck sits in a corner and picks through his code while Mike laughs and cheers in all the right places and says stuff like “Dude, did you see that?!” and “Oh man, I can’t believe this is early 2000s!”.  And it’s...fun?  And for about half an hour, Chuck breathes like a normal person for the first time in what feels like his whole life.

And then a black-and-red blur thunders through the door and ruins everything.

“Hey Tiny!” shouts Texas, flinging himself into Mike with unrepentant enthusiasm.  “Let’s fight, c’mon!!  Let’s go!”

“Not right now, Tex,” says Mike, grinning and reaching around Texas to pause the movie.  “I’m in the middle of this--”

“ _Tiny!”_

“He said _get off_ ,” snaps Chuck from his corner, glaring up at Texas from under his bangs.  “So leave him alone!”

“Oh, _you_ wanna go?”  Texas peels himself off of Mike, keeping one arm crooked companionably around his neck.  “I’m down for it, just after I’m done fightin’ Tiny, alright?  ‘Cause he’s the best apart from Texas, probably.”

“Tex, I mean it, maybe later,” says Mike, half-grinning--with one nervous eye on Chuck.  “Everyone be cool--”

“I’m bein’ cool!” Texas protests.  “ _You_ be cool!  Not fightin’ Texas?  Not _cool!_ ”

“He said he didn’t wanna,” says Chuck, standing up.  “He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t wanna!”

Mike frowns at him, momentarily distracted from Texas’s headlock.  “Hey bud?  I got this, okay?  It’s all good--”

“It’s _not_ all good, that’s what I’m sayin’,” says Texas testily, thumping Mike in the chest with one broad fist.

“Tex--”

“Okay, that’s _it_!”

“Chuck--”

“Oh are we gonna _go_ , cyborg boy?  ‘Cause Texas can _go!”_

“Back _off!_ ” Chuck snarls, and in an instant he has one arm raised, gripping his slingshot apparatus white-knuckled.  The scope screen is inches from Texas’s face, laser sights centered on his nose.  Texas swears loudly and swings a knifehand at the extended arm, which barely budges an inch.

“I mean it!” shouts Chuck, and a line of green marks light up all the way to his elbow as he pulls the slingshot back by his ear.  “Get away from him!”

“Okay, time for everyone to calm down!” shouts Mike, diving between them.  “Tex, we can spar after the movie, okay?”

“Hnghm,” says Texas, still glaring wide-eyed at Chuck, who hasn’t lowered his slingshot.

“Chuck,” says Mike.

“He should _listen_ \--” Chuck starts, and then purses his lips as a hand lands on his shoulder.

“I can take care of myself, bud,” says Mike.

“But he--”

“Dude, seriously, it’s fine.  Let’s just...hang out, okay?”

They...hang out.  Chuck doesn’t pay much attention to the movie after that, just sits in a corner with a sour knot in his gut.  He can’t tell if he’s angry at Mike, or himself, or Texas--no, he’s definitely mad at Texas.  Which makes it even worse to sit there listening to the guy crowing at every explosion and shadow-boxing along with the fight scenes.

It sucks.

After the movie’s over, Mike crouches down next to Chuck, peering at him through his screens.  “You know Tex is your friend too, right?” he says.  “And Dutch and Julie--not just me.”

Chuck doesn’t say anything.

\--

He only gets in Mutt again after Dutch makes the seatbelt harness for him.  It’s--weird, them doing stuff for him, like it doesn’t matter and he doesn’t have to...pay for it or anything.

“We’re a team,” says Dutch, waving off Chuck’s stammered thanks.

They drive.  Slow at first, even though Chuck’s gut burn with guilt.  He sets up a speedclock in his visual display, just so he doesn’t have to keep glancing fearfully over at Mike’s dash.

“Hey,” says Mike one day, rolling to a halt outside Antonio’s, “it’s cool if you scream or whatever.”

Chuck stares at him, every thought in his head draining away.  That familiar surge of embarrassment rises in their place, eliminating rational thought.  “I--wh--I’m not gonna--why would you think--”

“Maybe it would…”  Mike pauses, looking kind of awkward all of a sudden, like he just realized he might be saying the wrong thing.  And then, all in one rush of words, “--would help you not cry and stuff later.  I mean.  If you really wanna get used to driving.  Which, you don’t have to, I’m not saying--”

“I don’t _cry_!” Chuck lies, loudly and obviously.  Mike isn’t an observant guy, he shouldn’t have noticed--

“I’m just--jeez, okay, sorry dude.  Sure, I gotcha.  No problem.  I just thought, I mean.  The first time I got in a car, Jacob just...punched the gas and I screamed for about ten minutes straight?  Have you ever rode with him?  It’s a _trip_.  But after a while it...was actually kinda fun.  Like the Erie water slide.”

Chuck looks away, face still burning, eager to change the subject.  “Water slide?”

“Yeah,” says Mike, apparently relieved to be done talking about feelings.  “It’s just, like, this big half-tube you ride down in a thing, and it drops you into the lake and it’s awesome.  You should go on it with us sometime!”

Chuck squints at him from under his bangs.  “Uh.  Yeah.  Sure.  It’s not scary or anything though, right?”

“Pff!  Nah!”

It’s very scary.  Chuck screams the whole time, and then finds out he can’t swim in the worst possible way.  But he does go back for a second try, once they’ve got the water wings on him.

\--

He feels different after G-Day.  Good different, for once.  He has people now, people who aren’t the Burners, and something about that seems to make it easier to talk to the Burners, to deal with Texas’s...issues.  Chuck’s realized--finally--that the Burners wouldn’t just drop him like a hot energy core if he screwed up, but if they did, well.  He’s a king now.  He could stay with his kingdom.

He stays late at the LARPing field a few weeks after G-Day, just to be there alone and unthinking, which is nice.  He can call Mike for a ride when he feels like going home, and that’s nice too.  Things are nice now, sometimes.  The shafts miles above leak diffuse golden light and gusts of warm, damp air down on the fields of Raymanthia, making the cable forests sway and the sparse yellow grass ripple.

There’s something...out there.  Chuck might not have noticed it if his ocular tech weren’t tracking for human movements.  He zooms in almost without thinking, expecting one of the other LARPers, or maybe even some mutant creature his eyes mis-identified.

It’s a human.  Or--something like one.  Spiky and black, contoured in scarlet.

Coming closer.

Oh, shit--oh shit, Chuck knows who this is, has heard bits and pieces from Mike about “Red” and his vendetta.  Chuck scrambles to his feet, loses sight of the shadow for a second, and then screams as his eyes refocus--

Red is impossibly close already, charging Chuck with unnatural speed.  There’s barely enough time for a few bolts from the slingshot, and all of them miss.

And then Red’s on top of him and there’s nothing left to think about.  Seconds into the fight, Chuck understands.  He _knows_ , a gut-level certainty that revs into life the moment Red throws his first punch.  It’s too fast, too sharp, too powerful.  Should have broken Chuck’s ribs, _would_ have if Chuck didn’t some augmentations there.

Chuck wonders if Red has them too.

They fight at light-speed, trading punches in a liquid blur of fists, but the fact is--Chuck isn’t wearing armor, and when he finally scrambles back away from Red he’s bleeding, knuckles split and jaw aching.  Gotta stall.  Call the Burners and stall.

“You’re a--cyborg,” he says, forcing the words out.  It feels like he’s gonna vomit if he keeps talking.

 _“Did they tell you you were the first one?”_ Red jeers, flexing his fingers.   _“That you were_ special?   _Of course they did.  Kids from Deluxe aren’t_ disposable, _are they?  Well.  Not unless they turn out to be fucking useless.”_

“Shut up,” says Chuck faintly.  His mouth is dry, his lips numb.  Everything is very far away.

 _“Hope they fixed some of the glitches with the executive command system,”_ Red continues casually, tapping the side of his helmet-- _tunk tunk.  “Otherwise you get stuck with orders you can’t carry out, right?_ Fight.  Win.”He pauses, shoulders tightening.“...Protect the house.”

“No one from Deluxe...told you to do that,” Chuck manages.  Mike told him about Red, explained the backstory.  Chuck had thought it was...weird, at the time.  Raising more questions than it answered.  Full of holes.  Now he’s starting to see the full shape of the thing, vague but horrifying.

Red laugh, a hard, humorless noise.   _“No, that’s right.  I got that one after I ran back down here.  But that’s a story you_ don’t _need to hear.”_

Chuck’s never fought another cyborg before.  He was the only successful augmentation project in Deluxe when he was being developed, and he wasn’t a fighter.  That hadn’t mattered when he was miles faster than any Ultra-Elite they could throw at him.

It matters now.

It matters when Red ducks easily under a sloppy punch, hooks an arm under Chuck’s armpit and wrenches it back behind him.  And then Chuck’s on the ground, head throbbing, grit digging into his cheek.

 _“I thought Chilton had figured me out when he got you,”_ Red mutters, his knee driving down hard into the small of Chuck’s back as he shifts.   _“Set a cyborg to catch a cyborg, that kind of bullshit_.   _But now I’m not so sure.”_

“I’m not--a bodyguard!” Chuck squeaks, because he’s hyperventilating and it’s all he can think to say.  “I’m not--”

 _“Yeah, I got that.  Still--”_ A red-and-black hand appears, holding a device with dark, matte casing and faintly pulsing red lights.  Chuck recognizes it immediately as Kane Tech, and feels bile rise in his throat.   _“--shouldn’t hurt to hedge my bets, huh?”_

“What--”

 _“Remember Vega and his fancy car?”_ says Red conversationally, setting the thing almost gently on the ground near Chuck’s face.   _“I stole the weapons trigger before they incinerated the thing.  Pretty new stuff--but you could probably tell, right?  Takes out Kane tech, but I’m lucky--it doesn’t work on me.  I’m willing to bet, though--”_

“Wait--don’t--”

_“--that you’ve got some pieces and parts in there from the past couple of years.”_

“I don’t--oh fuck--come on, please, _please_ \--”

 _“Fight,”_ says Red, cold and mechanical.   _“Win.”_ He flicks a switch at the core’s base and presses the top with one sure hand.   _“Affirmative.”_

Everything goes white, then red, then black.  Chuck watches his systems blink frantically, trying to reboot-- _error-error-error-error-error_ \--feels the peculiar, awful panic of a part of himself shutting off.  Smells smoke.  Hears nothing.

He’s bleeding.  His ears are bleeding.  Hot and wet down his jaw.  Can’t hear.  His arms are burning, pieces inside him shifting and jamming.  Broken broken broken.  Again.  He feels the tears, but this time he can’t hear the screams.

\--

He spends a long time in bed, feeling nothing and too much at intervals.  Sometimes people come in, but after a while he just turns his back on the door so he doesn’t have to know anyone’s there.  He’s ruined everything.

Days pass.  Jacob brings in a doctor, who shines a light in Chuck’s eyes and tests his reflexes and a whole gamut of familiar checkup tests.  Chuck’s heart pounds uneasily throughout the ordeal, but he bears it and takes his antibiotics with dull faithfulness.  Jacob brings him food and sometimes he eats it. The Burners don’t kick him out but part of him is sure they’re waiting for him to come out so they can tell him to leave.  So he stays in his room, waiting for his ears to work again.

They don’t.

He’s sitting up in bed for the first time in a while, maybe a week later, when Mike walks in.  He settles down next to Chuck and just...stays there, without doing anything else.  Not waiting, just...being there.

After what feels like an hour, Chuck summons the nerve to pass over one of his screens.  Mike looks down at the blank text box, not understanding.  And then Chuck pulls up his keyboard and types, _hi Mike_ , and Mike...smiles.

Shit, this is gonna be hard.

 _so, I can’t hear,_ Chuck types, not looking at him.  It’s not entirely true--there are the faintest, blurriest hints of sound.  But not enough to understand words, or--anything.  Anything at all.

Mike’s hand lands on his back, warm and square.  Unsure, trying to comfort.  He’s not pressing, but Chuck still lets the weight of it bear him down, until he’s flattened over his crossed legs.  There’s a kind of thrum and crack in his throat, so he must be making some kind of noise, but he can’t for the life of him tell how loud it is.  There’s just a faint, patchy whine in his ears, fading in and out.  Mike pats his back.  Chuck keeps typing, fingers shaking over the keyboard.

_can’t hear_

_no slingshot or superspeed or_

_anything_

_just a fuckup full of metal junk_

_ruined everything_

_I ruined everything Mikey_

_you shouldn’t be friends with me I’m sorry_

The hand on his back hooks over one of his shoulders and pulls, and Chuck lets it happen, doesn’t have the strength to fight anything anymore.

The first thing he sees is a green screen, lines of text filling it in awkward bursts as Mike types furiously next to him.  Chuck sniffs, scrubs at his blurry eyes with the heels of his hands, and tries to focus on the words.

_u didnt ruin anything dude i promise, srsly_

_u just got in a fight, its not ur fault reds a psycho, im sorry u got involved in his whole thing with me, it sucks. im sorry._

_but ur still our friend. everyones hopin u get better soon._

_well learn sign language or w/e we need to do, ok? its gonna be ok. jacob has friends whore deaf n they do fine, its not the end of_

Furious backspacing.

_they do fine, it doesnt mean ur a screwup ok?_

_ok?_

_chuck?_

The text warps and splits as Chuck’s eyes start to prickle again.

\--

The next day, he takes stock.  It’s not...quite as bad as he thought.

He doesn’t seem to have any neural damage.  One slingshot is dead, but the one in his right arm works fine, and Chuck can deal with that.  He’s not super-fast anymore, but he’s still got the extra weight from all that metal, and that has to count for something.  Most of his bones are unbreakable, so that’s nice.

Oh, and his eyes still work.  Thank fucking god, the tech in his eyes was old enough that Red’s pulse did nothing.  Hey, there’s the bright side.  His eyes didn’t explode.

And where there’s ocular tech to work with, there’s the potential for a lip-reading program.

Chuck smiles.

\--

It takes getting used to.  It’s not...easy, the lip-reading or the sign language or any of the myriad small, frustrating changes.  Thinking about everything he’s missing now.  But there are other people--an old lady with bright pink hair who plays Bingo with Jacob, a girl Chuck’s age who gives him a copy of her ASL dictionary, a man who’s programmed his comms to respond to signing.  It’s like meeting the LARPers; another family, people like him.

True to Mike’s word, they Burners are doggedly keeping up with Chuck’s lessons.  Even Texas, whose enthusiasm is frankly baffling.  Watching him punch his way through the alphabet is...an experience.  He’s been different around Chuck since the thing with Red, almost nervous.  It’s not bad.

 _hey,_ writes Chuck one day, _you wanna fight?_

Texas does.  Chuck doesn’t, really, but he has to do something about the memory of that missed punch, being driven to the ground and held there, helpless.  This is all he can think of to do, even though it’s hard too--harder than anything else, in some ways.

Time passes.

Chuck can tell when there’s trouble these days, even when there aren’t any warning lights going off.  It’s easy to recognize the vibrations of running feet or the rumble of the garage opening.  And when Mike wants to let him know they’re rolling out, a quick couple of taps on the shoulder are all he needs.  Chuck closes his screens with a wave and vaults out of the Mutt Dog booth, loping towards the garage.

The rest of them are already there when he arrives--Texas, revving Stronghorn impatiently while Dutch tinkers with some last-minute adjustment.  Julie, pulling her keys out of her pocket.

 _Hey, buddy,_ says Mike with a grin.   _Let’s get going._

Chuck pauses, looking a little nervously at Mutt, and then starts typing.

_actually, I thought maybe I could_

_ride with Julie today._

_you know, just to try something new._

_Uh, okay,_ says Mike, and then, in halting sign language, _[You sure?]_

_[I’m sure.]_

Mike grins, puts an arm around Chuck’s shoulders and shakes him for a moment.  Chuck smiles back, then follows Julie to Nine Lives, clambering awkwardly into the passenger-side seat.  Down the line, Dutch closes the panel he was digging around under and finally drops into Whiptail, looking pleased with himself.

Julie taps Chuck’s shoulder.   _Ready?_

 _let’s drive,_ writes Chuck.

 _How fast do you want me to go?_ says Julie.  Chuck takes a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a long moment.

 _just start,_ he writes.   _I’ll let you know._


End file.
